


More Than One Drop

by melo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melo/pseuds/melo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The shower is a good place for deep thought. The only place better is in the rain, standing over two dead bodies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than One Drop

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime in season 5 near 5.03 "Free to be You and Me." 
> 
> Archiving this from LJ.

It’s a clean cut, her head dropping to the ground with a muffled thud, followed shortly after by the heavier thump of her body.

Dean’s breath is heavy, misting in the cool air of early morning. His palms are slick on the handle of his machete and his muscles ache from his long run. The flesh where his neck meets his shoulder throbs dully where the vampire had tried to maul him and Dean can feel the slow trickle of blood dampening his shirt, making it stick uncomfortably to his chest.

He knows it’ll sting like a bitch once the adrenaline rushes out of his system, but it’s not a life threatening wound and he’s not done, so he lifts his blade again, turning slowly as he scans his surroundings for the remaining vampire.

The vampire isn’t hard to find.

He looms at the edge of the tree line, staring out into the tall grass where Dean stands and looking more like a spectre than anything else.

The light that manages to slip through the heavy cast of clouds seems to set the field in monochrome, bleaching the skin of both Dean and the vampire bone white. It highlights the clean face of the creature; the red spatter coating Dean’s hands.

Dean’s eyes meet the black pools of the vampire’s and he widens his stance, preparing for the creature to charge him in a fit of rage or bloodlust.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, the vampire walks slowly towards Dean, measured steps as steady as the tick and tock of a clock, each footfall marked by the soft squelch of wet earth beneath his boots.

Dean doesn’t back away, standing his ground and tightening his grip on his raised machete, he watches warily as the vampire closes the distance between them.

And then the vampire is right there.

Not within the blink of an eye –Dean watched his every step– but there is an illusion of abruptness, and if Dean had been a lesser hunter, he would have flinched. Yet the vampire doesn’t attack, only lowers himself to the ground, knees sinking into the mud just a few feet from Dean.

Then the vampire is picking up the decapitated head of the female vampire – his mate – clutching it to his chest like a macabre stuffed animal and combing the mud out of blonde locks with steady fingers.

And Dean doesn’t know what to do.

His machete is still held in a defensive position, feet still planted in the muck, but for all the stability of his form, he feels thrown.

He knows that vampires experience some sort of grief –he’s had enough of the creatures attacking him for revenge– and he knows that there are more civilized vampires like Lenore, but this one kneeling before him doesn’t fall into either of Dean’s classifications of kill-it-dead-vamp or okay-vamp, because Dean saw him feeding from humans and even Lenore wouldn’t let the death of family go un-avenged.

Yet this vampire continues petting the head in his arms like he’s forgotten Dean’s right there, syringes of dead man’s blood in his pockets and machete hanging in the air.

It’s disturbing.

And then the vampire’s hand stills; once clean fingers now brown with mud.

Finally, he looks up at Dean, the hate in his face easy to read and the usual injustice that vampires like to cite about how ‘they’re people too’ written clearly in his eyes.

It should be easy for Dean to ignore because this is far from his first hunt; far from the first time he’s encountered almost-human things. This is the monster that has been picking off townsfolk and draining them dry. Dean’s seen him with bloodied fangs unsheathed and snarling like the creature he is, but there’s no more fight in the vampire now. He doesn’t make good on his earlier threats of tearing Dean’s throat out; doesn’t make a single move to get off the ground.

There’s something hopeless, something weary and lost and ancient in those eyes.

It’s too familiar in too many ways, how the vampire looks at Dean like nothing matters anymore.

So Dean makes it quick.

Another clean cut; another thud and a thump.

And it shouldn’t feel like murder –it never has before– so Dean tells himself it isn’t.

Dean cleans his blade with a sharp flick of his wrist, sending a short arc of red into the air which disappears into the soggy dirt with a pitter-patter like heavy rain.

He should have worn darker clothes so he could hide his blood spatter as effectively as the field, but it’s too late now and his shirt is just one of many items he has to clean up. It’s his least favourite part of the job, but it’s got to be done, so he starts the long hike back to the Impala to get the lighter fluid and shovel he’ll need to dispose of the remains.

It felt like seconds when he’d chased the vampires through the woods and into the grass, but it’s infinitely longer heading the opposite way. Even though Dean walks quickly – aware of the thick clouds and the threat of rain – the trees seem to outpace him.

He stumbles over raised tree roots and upturned stones, boots sticking in mud or splashing through dirty puddles – none of which had been obstacles when he’d run – and Dean’s not sure if he just hadn’t noticed earlier or if it’s his exhaustion catching up with him. He moves on autopilot, well practiced and well trained, his feet take him where he needs to go and it might be minutes or hours, but it feels like days. He checks his wristwatch, but the face is cracked, frozen in early morning, and not even the sky can tell him how much time has passed, a blanket of endless grey.

Eventually, like a lapse in his waking mind, he finds himself standing in the field again with his supplies in hand. He doesn’t question it, instead making quick work of the tall grass, flattening the damp stalks around the bodies with short stomps of his boot, chuckling darkly at his circle of death.

Despite the wet, Dean thinks the lighter fluid should be enough to fuel a fire, but just as he touches his fingers to the cap, it begins to rain.

One drop, two drops on the bridge of Dean’s nose, then a fine sprinkle, a fraction heavier than mist and then true rain – full beads of water falling from the sky, feeding the puddles already on the earth and drowning Dean.

His shoulders slump and he lets the bottle of lighter fluid drop into the mud. He can’t burn the bodies now –his one canister of lighter fluid isn’t enough– and he didn’t intend to dig a grave that can hold more than a lump of ashes and scorched bone, so he’s not going to dig one for two full bodies while the dirt turns to quicksand around him.

So he stands as he is, looking over the headless corpses at his feet, unwilling to trek back to his car despite the deep chill that creeps through his sodden clothes to wet his skin and freeze his flesh. The rain plasters his hair to his scalp, tap-tap-tapping on his skull. It runs into his eyes and down the back of his neck in cold sheets and it can’t be any good for his health, but nothing Dean does is in his best interest, so he stays.

It’s the world’s saddest competition, Dean against the rain.

He’s heard the weather warnings and knows the rain could last for days; could grow into a flood, but he doesn’t move and dares the storm to outlast him.

Miraculously, the rain seems to stop, the feel of icy drops on his skin replaced with a hollow patter sounding above him.

Dean looks up from the bodies on the ground to find that he’s not alone.

Castiel stands beside him, hand clutching an umbrella, holding it awkwardly thrust towards Dean. It’s like Castiel means for Dean to take the umbrella from his hand, and while he waits, he shelters Dean under the cheap nylon dome, letting himself be drenched in the downpour.

Dean stares at Castiel for a few moments, watching water run in rivulets over the angel, flattening his hair into spilled ink and melting his clothes into stiff membranes.

“Cas.”

And it wasn’t really a question, but the angel replies, voice a low reflection of the storm, “Yes.”

Castiel’s eyes are unblinking despite the rainwater that trickles into them, forming a liquid film before spilling over from the edges of his eyes. They’re like blue crystals, bright and shining, but just as unreachable as museum jewellery, so Dean turns back to look at the bodies, unnerved by the otherness he sometimes forgets to see.

“Something wrong?” Dean asks.

“No.”

“Then what’re you doing here?”

“You shouldn’t be standing in the rain.”

Dean looks sideways at Castiel, “How did you know I was standing in the rain?”

Dean didn’t call Castiel; didn’t tell the angel where he was or where he was going, but Dean’s always suspected that the angel doesn’t really need a phone to follow him, and sometimes he wonders if Castiel ever actually leaves.

Castiel doesn’t answer, only adjusts the umbrella to better shield Dean as the wind picks up and angles the spray of water.

Dean sighs, stepping to the side so he stands closer to Castiel and using his hands to bend Castiel’s arm at the elbow. It’s like adjusting a patio umbrella and Dean snorts at the idea. His talent seems to be in repurposing angels and that’s probably not a good thing, but at least they’re both out of the rain now, even if they’re already hopelessly soaked.

“Where’d you get the umbrella?”

“It was in the Impala’s trunk.”

“We don’t have an umbrella – and wait, how’d you get into the trunk?”

“It’s Sam’s, and you needn’t be concerned, I have not harmed the Impala.”

“Oh,” because of course Sam would have an umbrella. Dean doesn’t bother asking after the Impala again. He knows Castiel’s telling the truth. “Okay, but seriously, what’re you doing here?”

Dean’s watching the puddles building around the corpses, but he sees Castiel turn to face him from the corner of his eye. The angel repeats, “You shouldn’t be standing in the rain.”

Dean hums dismissively.

“You could fall ill,” Castiel’s brows furrow.

“If you’re so worried, couldn’t you just beam me into the desert?”

“Yes, but you like the rain.”  

Dean scoffs, “How would you know?”

“I know,” Castiel says, tax-accountant-bland.

Dean frowns.

The rain’s slowing down his hunt, stopping him from finishing his job. He’s cold and wet and his body feels like death beneath his water logged clothes. He’s going to be spending hours scrubbing the musk of wild rain from his coat and his boots feel like sunken boats.

But he does like it and he doesn’t have the energy to deny it – not like it really matters, anyway.

If Castiel’s going to let him, then Dean will take whatever pleasure he can find – even if it makes no sense – so he just tips his head down, water tracing his jaw and sliding down the line of his throat. He inhales deeply, exhales in one long breath that sends the raindrops beaded on his lips rolling off down to his chin.

His eye lids fall half shut as he’s taken in by the hypnotizing rhythm that beats around him.

Rain always quiets him; makes him think, and while normally thinking would be a bad thing – making all sorts of undesirables rise to the surface of his mind– under the cover of a storm it’s different.

Everything is glossed over by the sheen of water, muffled by the drip-drop patter, and numbed as the world stills for the weather. Even as the earth ceases to soak up the rain and the puddles swell and come together to form a pond at his feet, Dean doesn’t feel inclined to move.

It’s a bit like floating underwater. Dean’s at once lighter than he’s felt in a long time and yet weighed down by the gallons of problems that make up his life.

He’s not directly under the rain anymore, but still it enfolds him, veils him, hides his tracks and softens his brittle edges. It seeps into the cracks he can’t see but can feel, filling him and letting him pretend he is solid and whole; clean and at peace.

So maybe he’s not competing with the rain. The rain simply is. Whether Dean decides to go with the flow or fight tooth and nail makes no difference.

It was a silly idea anyways, that a force of nature could care about one man.

Then Dean’s eyes are snapping wide as he feels the earth slide out from under his feet.

His spine straightens as he jerks to attention and stumbles back, almost slipping into the mud, but then Castiel’s hand is gripping his upper arm, steadying him.

Dean hadn’t realized his eyes had closed, but apparently he’s falling asleep on his feet. He must be more tired than he thought to be lulled by nothing but the weather.

He should probably listen to Castiel for once and not stand in the rain like an idiot, but when he turns his head towards the angel, it’s to find Castiel watching him from less than a foot away. That makes sense since they’re standing under the same umbrella and Castiel is still holding his arm, but Dean gets the feeling that Castiel’s been staring at him for a long time.

Naturally, Dean stares back.

He doesn’t know how the angel can make everything awkward –everything except this– but he finds he doesn’t mind. If ever he felt discomfort in these moments, right now he does not, despite the way blue eyes track his every movement, marking him, mapping him, as if Castiel doesn’t already know how to find Dean wherever he goes.

Dean’s always wondered why, though. He wonders what Castiel sees when he looks at Dean – if he’s seeing anything at all. For all Dean knows, Castiel might not even use human eyes to look at things. Maybe this is his vessel’s default setting when Castiel retreats into the body or extends his angelic senses. Maybe Castiel has an autopilot that’s just as good as Dean’s that lets him carry out his duties with only half a mind.

Dean doesn’t know what Castiel sees, but what he sees is a scruffy man in a trench coat, made skinny and haggard in his water darkened coats; an incredibly life-like statue or one of those eerie paintings that seem to watch you no matter where you stand in a room. Castiel looks like all of those things, but mostly Dean sees something that he can’t quite describe.

It’s something that makes his heart beat faster without speeding his blood; that makes his breath go thin though the rise and fall of his chest remains unchanged. It freezes him in a strange equilibrium between fight and flight – a suspension in dark water.

What he sees is not Castiel’s true form –whatever that is– but it’s just as intangible; just as great and terrifying and–

And then Castiel is sliding his hand up Dean’s arm.

Dean blinks in slow confusion as Castiel’s palm comes to rest beneath Dean’s collarbones, thumb hooking into Dean’s shirt collar and dragging it down and to the side.

Then Dean remembers that he still has a gaping wound in his neck.

Oh.

That must’ve been what Castiel was staring at.

It’s probably also why he’s so tired and why his thoughts seem to drift absently; soft and relaxed and– 

When the hell does Dean ever contemplate anything, let alone the fucking rain?

Jesus, he must’ve lost a lot of blood.

Dean glances down, trying to look at the wound, but all he can see is that his shirtfront is dark with rainwater, hiding the blood stain which is a lot bigger than he remembers it being the last time he checked.

Dean grins, maybe a little deliriously – so he didn’t need to wear darker clothes after all.

Castiel’s brows draw down at Dean’s expression and he speaks sharply, “This needs to be bandaged.”

“I’m fine–” Dean begins to say, but then the world is spinning around him and he tips forward, dizzy and sick.

Castiel catches him, but Dean isn’t grateful because he wouldn’t feel like some kid’s playing  _Operation_  with his organs if the angel hadn’t suddenly decided to fly them to the motel.

“What a dick move, Cas,” Dean groans into the angel’s lapels, repeatedly jabbing an accusatory finger into Castiel’s chest as he curls in on himself, eyes squeezed shut in a poor attempt to keep his brain from melting.

Air Angel has never felt this bad before, so maybe he’s not fine, but Dean still thinks Castiel is overreacting.

“Be still,” the angel says sternly, pressing Dean onto the nearest motel bed, instantly ruining the cheap cotton with water, mud and blood. Then Castiel’s moving away and Dean cracks his eyes open to watch as Castiel efficiently fills a large bowl with water in the bathroom before grabbing a cloth, a towel and the first aid kit from Dean’s duffel.

Castiel returns quickly to Dean’s side, hand grabbing onto the collars of his shirts and in the next blink of Dean’s eye, Castiel is holding Dean’s jacket, button down, and tee shirt in one hand, all still layered inside each other while Dean is naked from the waist up.

“What the fuck?” Dean’s voice is an octave higher than normal and his face contorts in surprise, but Castiel just throws the soaked and bloodied clothing to the side like magically stripping Dean is something he does daily.

Dean doesn’t get much time to process what’s happening before Castiel’s pushing a damp cloth to Dean’s neck, and he gasps at the sensation. The cloth is rough, but the water is warm; scalding in comparison to Dean’s rain chilled skin. Dean brings a hand up to swat Castiel away, but the angel meets him half way, catching Dean by the wrist and holding him still.

“Dean,” Castiel says.

Dean looks up, mouth open to tell Castiel to keep his pushy, grabby hands to himself, but the words shrivel on his tongue.

Castiel looks pissed.

The grip of Castiel’s hand is almost cruel, Dean can tell from the way the angel’s fingers sink into his flesh, but he only feels it distantly. Next to Castiel’s blood-pink fingers, Dean now sees how pale he is. He’d thought it was just the washed out light of the overcast sky, but in the incandescent glow of the motel lamp, Dean’s skin still looks bone white, the only colour on his arm being what little gore wasn’t washed away by the rain.

Castiel simmers with quiet anger, but even though only a fraction of it is directed at Dean, he swallows thickly, eyes dropping away and hand falling limp in the angel’s grasp. He turns his head to the right, baring the wounded side of his neck without prompting.

It’s not like Dean could stop the angel, especially not when there’s a fine tremble shaking through his limbs –slight shivers and sapped strength– but Dean still feels more exposed than being shirtless should warrant and he tries to hide his face in the sheets bunched up around him.

Castiel doesn’t say anything more, only brings the cloth down again –a little more gently, as if to reward Dean’s compliance– and continues cleaning the wound.

Every now and then, the cloth will lift away and Dean will hear the slosh of water as it’s washed and wrung before it’s returned to Dean’s neck. He doesn’t look, but from the number of times Castiel repeats the procedure, the water in the bowl must now be dark pink with blood.

When Castiel finishes wiping at Dean’s neck, he takes the towel and pats the area near the wound dry before applying a cold stinging liquid –antiseptic– to the actual bite. Then Castiel carefully presses bandages to Dean’s neck, making sure the tape adheres properly to his skin and fully covering the wound to staunch the slow flow of blood. The angel does everything surgically – practiced, though Castiel shouldn’t have experience applying human healthcare.

“You been playing nurse with Sammy while I wasn’t looking?” Dean asks, a little edgier than he has reason to be.  

“You are my charge, Dean. It would be foolish if I didn’t know how to tend wounds.”

Dean turns his head back to look at Castiel, ignoring the way the angel’s hand is still cupped over his throat. He can tell that there’s still anger burning low in Castiel, but now he can see where most of it is really directed, and Dean doesn’t like it.

On most other days, Dean would probably roll away from Castiel, hide his face back in the sheets, clam up and pretend to sleep, but today it rains and Dean feels almost strong; almost patient.

“I shouldn’t have been standing in the rain,” Dean admits, “And I’m an idiot. I mean – I forgot I got mauled by a freaking vamp.” Dean grins weakly, patting Castiel’s forearm reassuringly, “It’s not your fault I can’t take care of myself.”

Castiel’s mouth draws into a thin line, obviously disagreeing with Dean though he doesn’t voice it. All he does is hunch lower over Dean, taking the towel and rubbing it softly into Dean’s hair.

Dean wants to complain about the mothering, but Castiel’s face is stormy and he seems determined to dry Dean properly though the angel himself is fully clothed in drenched garments.

It’s an innocent enough gesture, but Dean can see how intent Castiel is; can feel how each wipe of the towel slides slowly, lingering longer than necessary and tracing the shape of Dean’s jaw, the line of Dean’s shoulders and the planes of his chest in a way that is just a bit reverent; a bit remorseful.

Dean quivers under Castiel’s touch because he knows the signs. Dean feigns ignorance, but he knows exactly what devotion looks like and where that sort of investment leads.

“Cas,” Dean chokes out, grabbing the angel’s hand and holding it still.

Castiel’s eyes fly up to meet Dean’s, his attention laser sharp in its focus.

Dean pushes himself off the mattress, sitting up so he can speak to Castiel properly, “You can’t, okay?”

“Can’t, what?” Castiel seems honestly confused.

“Everything, Cas. Everything,” Dean shakes his head, letting go of the angel’s hand. “Blaming yourself for this–” Dean gestures at his neck wound, “–blaming yourself for this–” Dean pinches his cold and damp skin, “–the freaking umbrella holding,” Dean points at the umbrella lying abandoned on the motel carpet.

“You can’t protect me from everything, Cas,” Dean bows his head, runs his hand through his damp hair. “You can’t.”

And they both know Dean means that in two ways – it’s a demand and a simple fact.

“I can try.”

Dean scowls, “No, you can’t just follow me wherever I go.”

“But I will.”

Dean’s head snaps up and his eyes meet Castiel’s to find a fatal calm rising to the surface. It’s a sight he knows to be hopeless and weary, though the ancient glimmer puts a new spin on the look. “I will follow you wherever you go,” Castiel says.

It’s too familiar, how Castiel looks at Dean like he matters more than anything, and Dean wants to blind himself to the futility of it all.

Castiel leans in close, hands coming up to grip Dean’s shoulders, fingers like soothing water and voice the low rumble of far off thunder, “You can tell me not to, but know that you cannot stop me.”

And Dean knows how this will go.

He can see it painted in blue –the colour of old eyes, of museum treasures, of Polaroids burnt black at the edges– the thing that draws his family to stand tall; that flattens them in a circle of death, too willing to lay down in the mud, one for another, again and again. Dean knows both sides of sacrifice, so he should do the right thing and push Castiel to safety; break him from the trap before they become another two fatalities, if not today, then tomorrow, a month from now, a year or little more. They are the Righteous Man and an Angel of the Lord, and nothing can end well for them.

It wouldn’t be difficult to keep a safe distance, to go back to pretending that it doesn’t hurt when Dean looks but doesn’t touch, but Castiel’s touch is cool and clean, trickling into Dean, filling him up, making him almost solid; almost whole. It’s just an illusion, false peace that only hides him, veils him, covers his tracks and shields him. It can’t heal him inside or out and he will only keep bleeding even as it seems to wash him clean, but Dean rarely does what’s best for him.

Too much of his life has been spent fighting tooth and nail against a greater power and he is tired of always competing, so how can he resist Castiel who is such a willing refuge from his hurts.    

“Fine,” Dean relents, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Castiel smiles softly as if he’s won a prize, his fingers drifting down Dean’s shoulders to stroke gently over Dean’s roughened knuckles, the movement uncertain in execution though Dean can tell the intent behind it is anything but. It’s a comforting gesture that hints at possibilities Dean could drown in; ten points of contact like ten ties that bind them, whatever path they travel.

Dean gives an answering smile and traps Castiel’s hands tightly in his own, and it shouldn’t feel like murder, so Dean tells himself it isn't.


End file.
